Chapter 3 - The Message on the Money
Andrew's home wasn't what Ivy expected.
She had imagined a castle.
Maybe guards on towers.
Possibly a dungeon.
Instead, the brownstone in Brooklyn Heights looked like every expensive house she had ever seen in movies—tall windows, warm lamps, bookshelves, polished floors, and a kitchen so clean she was afraid to touch anything.
There were guards.
But no towers.
She checked.
Andrew noticed.
"What are you looking for?"
"Nothing."
"That usually means something."
Ivy whispered, "Dungeon."
Marco choked on his coffee.
Andrew stared at her.
"There's no dungeon."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me."
"I do."
"You clearly don't."
Ivy looked toward the basement door.
Andrew sighed.
"Marco, show her the basement."
Marco raised an eyebrow.
"Now?"
"Apparently my reputation requires an inspection."
Five minutes later, Ivy returned satisfied.
"No dungeon."
"Thank you."
"There is a wine room."
"Don't touch anything."
"I don't like wine."
"Excellent."
Someone had brought chocolate cereal, milk, clean pajamas, a toothbrush, and several stuffed animals.
Ivy chose none of the stuffed animals.
She kept the worn bear from her backpack beside her.
Andrew understood.
Some things couldn't be replaced just because a better version existed.
While Ivy ate cereal, Andrew stood in the next room with Marco and three of his most trusted people.
A map of Ashwood Nursing Home covered the table.
Fourth floor.
Room 417.
There was a problem.
According to public records, Ashwood only had three patient floors.
"The fourth level is administrative," Marco said.
"That's what the website says."
Andrew looked at the architectural plan.
"No."
"What?"
"Look at the elevators."
Marco leaned closer.
Four elevator shafts continued upward.
But the public floor plan showed only three patient levels.
"Hidden floor?"
"Restricted floor."
"Medical?"
"Maybe."
Andrew touched Room 417 on the old construction blueprint.
"Where'd you get this?"
"City archive."
"When?"
"Building renovation application from fourteen years ago."
Andrew studied the date.
Five years before Daniel disappeared.
Ashwood hadn't improvised this.
Whatever the fourth floor was, it had existed long before Daniel arrived.
"What about Father Reeves?"
"Nothing yet."
"He's seventy-one. Parish in Queens. Financial records clean."
"Too clean?"
Marco nodded.
"No debt. No strange transfers. No criminal connections."
Andrew looked toward the kitchen.
Ivy was arranging cereal pieces by shape.
"People with clean records can still lie."
Marco lowered his voice.
"He gave your mother the funeral mass."
"I remember."
"He baptized Daniel."
"I remember that too."
The room went silent.
Father Reeves hadn't simply known the Mercer family.
He had been part of it.
Andrew remembered being twelve and sitting beside Daniel on the church steps, both boys waiting while their father finished speaking to the priest inside.
Daniel had always hated sitting still.
He would kick pebbles toward the storm drain.
Andrew would tell him to stop.
Daniel would do it harder.
Nine years.
Andrew had replayed the last day he'd seen his brother thousands of times.
They had argued.
Daniel, twenty-one, wanted out.
Out of the family.
Out of Brooklyn.
Out of everything their father had built.
Andrew had called him selfish.
Daniel had called Andrew afraid.
Those were the last words they exchanged.
Then Daniel vanished.
His car was found near Red Hook.
Blood everywhere.
No body.
Andrew's father had died two years later.
His mother three years after that.
Andrew had been left with an empire he had never truly wanted and guilt he believed he deserved.
Now guilt was becoming something else.
Rage.
Marco placed a tablet on the table.
"We recovered street cameras."
"Show me."
The footage displayed Father Reeves inside the black SUV.
The image was grainy but unmistakable.
The priest looked older.
Smaller.
Still him.
Andrew watched it twice.
Then a third time.
"Find him."
"We sent someone to the parish."
"And?"
"He's gone."
"When?"
"Church secretary says he left yesterday morning."
"Destination?"
"Didn't say."
Andrew's jaw tightened.
Marco continued.
"There was an envelope in his desk."
"For me?"
"No."
He turned the tablet.
"For Ivy."
Andrew looked toward the kitchen.
"No."
Marco frowned.
"No what?"
"She doesn't see it yet."
"Could contain something she recognizes."
"She's seven."
"She got herself across Brooklyn and found you."
"Exactly."
Andrew lowered his voice.
"She has already done more than she should ever have needed to do."
Marco watched him.
"You're getting attached."
Andrew looked coldly at him.
Marco lifted both hands.
"Observation."
"Bad one."
"Sure."
Andrew returned to the envelope.
"Open it."
Inside was a photocopied page.
Patient chart.
No name.
Only numbers.
Medication schedule.
Andrew didn't understand most of it.
But the handwritten note at the bottom was clear.
Dosage reduced by Nurse C. Patient became responsive at 02:13.
Nurse C.
Callahan.
Ivy's mother.
Below it:
Patient stated name: Daniel Mercer.
Andrew closed his eyes briefly.
Proof.
Not perfect.
But more than he'd had an hour ago.
Marco looked shaken.
"So he's alive."
"Was."
"Don't."
Andrew opened his eyes.
"Nine years changes people."
"But he made it nine years."
"If they're keeping him sedated, there has to be a reason."
"Information?"
"Maybe."
"Leverage?"
"Against who? I thought he was dead."
Marco frowned.
"What if the leverage wasn't against you?"
Andrew looked at him.
"What if Daniel wasn't hidden because of you?"
A new possibility settled over the room.
Andrew's father.
The family business.
Something Daniel had known.
Something worth keeping him alive.
Andrew turned toward the blueprint again.
Room 417.
"We go tonight."
Marco shook his head.
"Too obvious."
"Good."
"That's not strategy."
"No. Strategy is what they expect."
Andrew pointed toward the main entrance.
"They know we're coming."
"Exactly."
"So we give them what they expect."
Marco slowly understood.
"Front team."
"And a second team through the service wing."
"How?"
Andrew held up the medical access card.
Marco smiled.
"I knew I liked that kidnapper."
"He's not a kidnapper."
"No?"
"Messenger."
"Difference?"
"Messengers know less."
Andrew looked toward the basement stairs.
"Where is he?"
"Safe room."
"Talking?"
"Not yet."
"He will."
Andrew turned.
A small figure stood in the doorway.
Ivy.
She had changed into oversized pajamas patterned with stars.
Her bear was tucked beneath one arm.
"Who will?"
Andrew's expression changed instantly.
"Someone who knows where your mother might be."
"Can I talk to him?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he helped scare you."
"Maybe he'll tell me."
"No."
Ivy stared at him with the same stubborn look Daniel used to have.
Andrew disliked the comparison immediately.
"Go finish your cereal."
"I did."
"Then sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"You were asleep sitting up ten minutes ago."
"I was thinking."
"With your eyes closed?"
"It helps."
Marco turned away again.
Andrew crouched.
"Ivy."
She studied his face.
"Are you going to get Mommy?"
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm not sleeping until she comes back."
Andrew didn't know what to say.
Promises were easier when they were about violence or money or territory.
Children required a different kind.
"I can't promise she'll be back tonight."
Ivy's eyes filled.
He continued quickly.
"But I can promise I won't stop looking."
"Even if it's dangerous?"
"Especially then."
She nodded reluctantly.
Then she held something out.
A piece of paper.
Andrew took it.
"What's this?"
"I found it in my backpack."
Marco came closer.
The paper had been folded several times.
Andrew opened it.
One sentence.
Written in the same shaky red ink as the five-dollar bill:
IF ANDREW FINDS YOU, TELL HIM DANIEL REMEMBERS THE CHURCH BASEMENT.
Andrew's skin went cold.
"What church?" Marco asked.
Andrew didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
There was only one church that mattered.
St. Gabriel's.
Father Reeves's church before he moved to Queens.
The church where Andrew and Daniel had grown up.
The church where Daniel's empty coffin had rested beneath candles while their mother sobbed.
Andrew turned the paper over.
Nothing.
Ivy watched him.
"Is that bad?"
Andrew forced his voice steady.
"No."
"You're doing the face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're pretending something isn't bad."
Marco suddenly became very interested in the blueprint.
Andrew looked at Ivy.
"Who put this in your backpack?"
"I don't know."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"Did anyone touch it today?"
She shook her head.
"It was in my closet all week."
Then the message had probably been placed there before her mother's disappearance.
Possibly by her mother.
Possibly by someone helping her.
Andrew looked again at the words.
Daniel remembers the church basement.
A memory surfaced.
He and Daniel at sixteen and thirteen.
Their father leading them through St. Gabriel's after midnight.
A locked basement room.
Their father meeting men Andrew didn't recognize.
Daniel asking questions.
Andrew being told to keep quiet.
He had forgotten.
Or convinced himself he'd forgotten.
"Marco."
"Yeah."
"Change of plan."
Marco looked at him.
"Church first?"
Andrew nodded.
"What about Ashwood?"
"Second team goes ahead."
"You?"
"St. Gabriel's."
Marco stared at the note.
"If Daniel remembers something from that basement, maybe that's why they kept him alive."
Andrew looked toward the window.
Rain had started again.
Soft at first.
Then harder.
He folded the message and slipped it beside the five-dollar bill.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, his brother might be breathing.
Somewhere else, Ivy's mother was being held beside a white dress.
And somewhere between those two places was a secret buried beneath a church.
Andrew had spent nine years believing Daniel was dead.
Tonight, he was going to find out who had killed the truth instead.
But as he reached for his coat, the house alarm gave one sharp electronic tone.
Marco checked his phone.
His face changed.
"What?"
Marco turned the screen toward him.
Exterior camera.
Front gate.
A woman stood in the rain.
Barefoot.
Soaked.
Bruised but upright.
Ivy saw her first.
"Mommy!"
She ran.
Andrew grabbed her before she reached the door.
Because the woman outside wasn't alone.
May you like
A red laser dot had just appeared against the center of her back.
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